Of THE OLD CORPORAL. MARCHING TO EXECUTION. FROM THE FRENCH OF PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER. OW, comrades, onward let us | When I our bloody fights narrate; go; Each man his musket firmly bear. My pipe is lit; your love I know: Well, that's what glory means, you see! Cheer, comrades, cheer! Nay, shed no tear. Attention! march! quick march! Come, close this life of toil Robert, my fellow-townsman, thou and care. To thy quiet flocks must get thee home. Dolt, in the service to grow Hold! see these garden-buds: ere now In our sweet cantons they're in bloom. gray! But then you young recruits From early dawn on woody hill had need your old corporal many a day. Cheer, comrades, cheer! Nay, shed no tear. Attention! march! quick march! A cornet struck me-raw young Recruits, you'll scarce endure the loss I've often strayed the livelong day: Attention! march! quick march! What woman weeps and murmurs so? Pray for my soul, good Jeanette, do! Attention! march! quick march! Look you! my pipe's smoked out and dry! Be firm—aim well. God keep you all, Attention! march! quick march! Translation of WILLIAM ANDERSON. THE ONEYDA CHIEF'S WAR-SONG. ΑΝ Or bow this head in woe; For, by my wrongs and by my wrath, That fires yon heaven with storms of death, And we shall share, my Christian boy, "But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Nor will the Christian host, "To-morrow let us do or die; The hand is gone that cropped its flowers; "Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah! there, in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone. Like me, are death-like old. "But hark! the trump! To-morrow thou Amidst the clouds that round us roll; From Outalissi's soul, DANIEL DE FOE. E FOE, the son of a London butcher, was born in the year 1661, in the parish of St. Giles. He was educated at a celebrated dissenting academy, that of Mr. Morton, at Stoke-Newington. In A. D, 1692 he failed in business, his liabilities being eighty-five thousand dollars. He compromised with his creditors, but afterward most honor ably paid this large indebtedness in full. The troubles of De Foe were not confined to his business ventures. He engaged in the He engaged in the religious controversies of the age, and was condemned to the pillory for one of his productions, entitled The Shortest Way with the Dissenters. Both the religious parties were offended by this publication, but the sympathies of the people were with him. On the occasion of his condemnation he wrote his Hymn to the Pillory," which is considered to be among the best of his poems. following extract from that poem shows 66 The Virtue despises human scorn, What prospect do I see of sovereign fate! The peculiarity of De Foe's style consists in giving to fiction the appearance of fact, clothing fancy with the garb of reality. His works are very voluminous, the most popular of them being Robinson Crusoe. He died A. D. 1731. A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. TH HIS thing called conscience is a strange, bold disturber. It works upon the imagination with an invincible force; it makes a man view things that are not as if they how philosophically he underwent the pun- were, feel things that are not to be felt, see ishment assigned him. "Hail, hieroglyphic state machine, Contrived to punish Fancy in! Men that are men in thee can feel no pain, Contempt-that false new word for shame- But never frights the wise or well-fixed mind: things that are not to be seen and hear things that are not be heard; it commands the senses; nay, even the tongue itself, which is so little under command, submits to this sovereign mandate; and though I do not see that conscience always overrules it to silence, yet it often makes it speak, even whether it would or no, and that to its own ruin and destruction, making the guilty man accuse himself and confess what his policy had before so effectually concealed that no eye had seen it, no evidence could prove it. The murderer sees the murdered innocent as plainly before his eyes as if he was actually sent back from his place to charge him; nay, he sees him without eyes: he is present with him sleeping and waking; he sees him when he is not to be seen, and testifies to his own guilt with no need of other witness. high fever and believing he should die, conscience began to stare at him and to talk to him. He resisted a long time, but, death approaching, he grew very pensive, though, as he said, still more afraid of dying than penitent for his crime. After he recovered he grew easy and began to forget things again; came over to Europe again, and, being at Rouen, in Normandy, he dreamed he saw the murdered man again, and that he looked frightful and terrible and with a threatening aspect, and this threw him into A gentleman, and a man in good circum- a kind of melancholy, which increased exceedstances too, committed a murder in or nearingly, the spectre, as he called it, coming to St. Pancras, Soaper lane, London, many him every night. years ago. The murder was attended with some very cruel and barbarous circumstances such as he could not expect to be pardoned for; so he fled, and, making his escape into France, got out of the reach of justice. His personal safety was for a while so much satisfaction to him that he did not make any reflections at all upon the fact; but after a while he took shipping from France and went over to Martinico, where he lived several years. And even for two or three years he carried it off well enough; but the. first shock given to his soul was in a fit of sickness, when, being in danger of death, he saw, as he was between sleeping and waking, the spectre, as he thought, of the murdered person, just as in the posture when he killed him, his wound bleeding and his countenance ghastly; the sight of which exceedingly terrified him, and at length awakened him. But, being awake and finding it was but a dream, and that the murdered person did not really appear to him, and, as he called it, haunt him, he was easy as to that part; but, being in a But this was not all, for now, as he dreamed of it all night, so he thought of it all day. It was, as we say, before his eyes continually; his imagination formed figures to him, now of this kind, then of that, always relating to the murdered man, so that, in short, he could think of nothing else; and though he was satisfied there was no real ghost, as he called it, or apparition, yet his own terrified conscience made the thought be to him one continued apparition, and the murdered man was never out of sight. He was so reduced by the constant agitation of his soul that he was in a very weak condition and in a deep consumption. But in the midst of these tumults of his soul he had a strong impression upon his mind that he could never die in peace, nor ever go to heaven, if he did not go over to England and either get the Parliament's pardon (for it was in those days when there was no king in Israel), or that if he could not obtain a pardon. that then he should surrender into the hands of justice and satisfy the law with his life, which was the debt he owed to the blood of the man he killed, and could no other way be expiated. He withstood this as a wild, distracted thing and the fruit of his disturbed mind. "What," said he to himself, "should I go to England for? To go there is to go and die;" and these words, "go and die," run daily upon his mind. But though they came first into his thoughts as an answer to his other distractions, yet they turned upon him soon after, and he dreamed that the dead murdered man said to him, “Go and die;" and, repeating it, said, "Go to England and die;" and this followed him by night and by day, asleep and awake, that he had it always in his ears, "Go to England and die." In short, and to pass over some circumstances, though worth telling, which happened to him in the mean time, he was so continually terrified by the reproaches of his conscience and the voice which he thought followed him that he answered it once in his sleep thus: they were obliged to get into one of the lighters and let the boat sink. This occasioned him, contrary to his design, to go on shore a little to the eastward of Queenhithe; from thence he walked up on foot toward Cheapside, intending to take a coach for Westminster. As he passed a street which crosses out of Bread street into Bow lane, being almost night and he not well knowing the streets, having been absent eighteen years, he heard somebody cry, "Stop him! stop him!" It seems a thief had broke into a house in some place as he passed by, and was discovered and run for it, and the people after him, crying, "Stop him! stop him!" It presently occurred to him that, being so near the place where the murder was committed, and where he had lived, somebody that knew him had seen him, and that it was him they cried after; upon which he began to run with all his might. Had the people cried "Stop thief!" he "Well, if it must be so, let me alone: I had had. no need to be alarmed, knowing, will go and die." It was some time, however, before he did; but at last, unable to support the torture of his mind, he resolved to come over to England, and did so. He landed at Gravesend, and there took passage in the tilt-boat for London. When he arrived at London, intending to land at Westminster, he took a wherry at Billingsgate, to carry him through bridge. It happened that two lighters loaden with coals run foul of the boat he was in, and one of another, over-against Queenhithe, or thereabouts; and the watermen were so very hard put to it that they had much ado to avoid being crushed between the lighters, so that as he said, that he had stolen nothing; but the crowd crying only "Stop him! stop him!” it was as likely to be him as not; and, his own guilt concurring, he run, as above. As he run with all his might, it was a good while before the people overtook him; but just at the corner of Soaper lane, near about where now stands the Rummer tavern, his foot slipped, and, his breath failing him too, he fell down. The people, not knowing who he was, had lost their thief and pursued him; but when they came up to him, they found he was not the right person and began to leave him. But his own guilty conscience, which at first set him a-running, and which alone was his real |